Bo's Lover

Bo's Lover

A Poem by Kerri Hart

 

 

The wind was settling,

As the young man ran,

Through the dark streets,

Up to her flat,

 

Dark curls flopping,

Green eyes glittering,

Black Jack Wills sweatshirt,

Merely a dark shadow in the night.

 

On the pavement he strode with a quick pace,

He tapped on the shutters,

With a fought for straight face,

Then he hummed a tune, only familiar to him,

And over his face broke a grin.

 

For there was Bo,

With her black locks swaying,

Swaying,

Swaying in the wind.

 

Black eyes sparkling,

Sparkling at the sight of him,

Sparkling with her love for him,

Sparkling with her want for him.

 

He pulled her into an embrace,

Reaching up on his toes,

He breathed a song,

Into her golden clad ear.

 

“I have to go, love,

I’m leaving you here,

But I’ll be back,

Don’t you dare fear.”

 

Bo gave a giggle,

A titter,

A laugh,

For she knew,

He would always be back.

 

“I’ll bring back a gift,

A treasure to hold,

Through the moonlight I’ll ride,

I’ll come by moon down.”

 

 

Bo squeezed his hand,

So full of love,

Awaiting the rest,

Of the story to be told.

 

“And if I’m held up,

I’ll fight my way through,

And if anything,

It’ll be just to see you.

 

I’ll beat my way through,

Ride straight through the night,

Watch through this window,

Watch by moon light.”

 

Bo’s hand squeezed,

Her dear lovers hand,

Her lips came in contact,

With his personal brand,

 

He savored the moment,

For one second,

Two,

Then turned on his heel and walked briskly away,

And his heart began hurting through,

And through.

 

Little did he know,

They had not been alone,

For Scott had been listening,

To his love, Bo.

 

But Bo’s heart was taken,

By a different man,

Making Scott jealous,

Heartless,

And mad.

 

So Scott ran away,

To a certain group of men,

Bo’s lovers plan,

Etched in his head.

 

For Scott was the care-taker,

Of a run-down motel,

Always kept busy,

And answered to the bell.

 

 

He had never stood a chance,

To Bo’s green eyed lover,

The chocolate curled robber,

Who had left Bo that night.

 

And so, Bo sat waiting,

In her straight-backed wooden chair,

Staring at the road,

And messing with her hair.

 

The sky grew light,

Bright,

Bright,

And BO sat waiting,

Messing with her hair.

 

But then the day grew,

Turned,

Melded into night,

And with it the night,

Brought the hum of cars.

 

They parked on Bo’s lawn,

Stumbled into the night,

Drunkenly chattering, of bars having been to that night.

 

The air smelled toxic,

As they broke into her house,

Voices slurring the words,

“Hands up, you louse.”

 

They locked up Bo’s father,

And mother too,

Laughing happily,

Drinking their booze.

 

They tied Bo up,

With a gun to her chest,

Stabbing her chest,

Aiming for her breast,

 

Bo writhed and wriggled,

Couldn’t breathe through her gag,

And the Scotland Yard kissed her cheek saying,

“Do you missing your loving lad?”

 

 

Bo wept into her hair,

For the knots held good,

Keeping her from warning,

Her green-eyed lover away.

 

She screaming and she shouted,

‘Til her voice grew hoarse

Distracting her captors,

From her hard thought out choice.

 

For Bo had found the trigger,

To the harsh gun,

And there she sat waiting,

Stopped trying to run,

 

And when she saw him,

Her green-eyed lover,

Her curly haired robber.

 

 

 

She closed her eyes,

And squeezed the gun,

Sending a warning,

Before her lover became done.

 

He heard the gunshot,

Bo’s lover he did,

But it did not warn him,

It spurred him instead.

 

At the sound of the shot,

He took off into a run,

Breaking through her window,

To hear Bo’s last word, “Please. Run.”

 

But he was mad,

Crazed,

Befallen with grief,

For Bo, lay before him,

Her blood tickling his feet.

 

His green eyes were wet,

Brown curls draped down,

When the drunken men,

Had shot him down.

 

 

And yet it is said,

He still strides,

Green eyes sparkling,

Brown curls flopping,

Dark Jack Wills’s jacket,

Merely a shadow in the night,

 

Up to her window,

Whistling a tune

To the shutters,

Under the fat moon.

 

And who should answer,

But his late lover?

Bo still waiting,

And messing with her hair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© 2013 Kerri Hart


Author's Note

Kerri Hart
Review :)

My Review

Would you like to review this Poem?
Login | Register




Reviews

inspired by the highway man :)

Posted 7 Years Ago


There's a touch of Noyes Highwayman about this...very nice:)

Posted 7 Years Ago


Kerri Hart

7 Years Ago

ahhh,
i was wondering if anyone would notice this. Yes, it was actually inspired by it. :)

Request Read Request
Add to Library My Library
Subscribe Subscribe


Stats

227 Views
3 Reviews
Added on February 4, 2013
Last Updated on February 4, 2013
Tags: Bo, Harry, brown curls, green eyes, Death, scott

Author

Kerri Hart
Kerri Hart

LA, CA



About
I suppose there is a reason your reading my bio, yes? I don't know why... I am quite awful at them, but I'll make sure it can't be too boring. So: AT 11:11 tonight look into your closet, there will .. more..

Writing
Prologue Prologue

A Chapter by Kerri Hart